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RWB Workshop Poem of the Week – June 5

June 9, 2016

Eulogy for Eleanor

John Barrale

 

I was twelve; she was eight.

My mother forced me to go— her funeral mass

was a sad storybook on a Sunday morning.

The night before her coffin floated

in a forest of flowers and ribbons.

Under its closed lid, I imagined her head

resting on a satin pillow—

jewel-like, exact

and delicate.

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